Minsk
In the middle of the map of Europe, there’s a blind spot. It has no coastline, no geographical landmarks, I’ve never seen a photo of it — it seems like no one ever goes there. What drew me to Belarus was precisely everything I didn’t know about it.
Minsk only existed in my father’s Gran Atlas Aguilar and in my imagination. Maybe it would have been more comfortable to just keep fantasizing about the city — it’s probably much less interesting than the one in my head.
Getting to Minsk isn’t easy. You need a visa, a hotel reservation, and an invitation letter from a travel agency registered with the Belarusian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. There are very few flights. But it’s also true that the consular office staff in Rio de Janeiro are quite friendly.
The only person I know who has ever been there is my friend Gustavo Leal, an authority on all things Russian. He went to Minsk once, arrived by train, walked around the center, got bored, and left for Moscow the same day.
The name attracts me irresistibly. I’m capable of going to a place just because of its name. Minsk belongs in the same category as Arkhangelsk, Murmansk, Cluj, and Dubrovnik. It’s almost sexy.
The man next to me leafed through the entire OnAir, Belavia Airlines’ in-flight magazine, only to stop at the chess puzzle, which he studied with his fingers moving over the drawing of the board.
In an interview in OnAir, the French ambassador’s advice: “Women: never let your husbands come here alone; men: leave the women at home.”
I exchanged 100 euros for 1,110,000 Belarusian rubles. It reminded me of the Sarney years and the inflation in Brazil, when there were practically no coins. A stack of bills in your wallet that sometimes wasn’t enough for a bus ride.
It might be true that Belarus is the place most like what the Soviet Union used to be. Not just in the buildings or the authoritarian government, but also in the simplicity and frugality of the people. I look again at Henri Cartier-Bresson’s photos of the USSR in the 1950s — the same light, same clothes, same people.
It can’t be easy for a Belarusian to define themselves. It’s not Russia, but almost. It’s Europe, but not quite. The republic was declared in 1918 and soon incorporated into the USSR. As an independent country, it has existed only since the Soviet collapse in 1991. The name literally means “White Russia.”
The Belarusian language is similar to Russian and Ukrainian, but today it’s spoken by a minority, although everyone understands it. Russian dominates on TV, in the streets, in cities, and in the government. The process of Russification has left permanent marks on the culture, and now it seems too late to go back. In Minsk, almost no one speaks Belarusian — or so I’ve been told.
Two architectural styles are clearly visible. One is palatial, triumphant, with arabesques, balustrades, and porticos. It could be called socialist classicism or simply Stalinist. The other is modernist, with clean, functional lines, descended from Constructivism. It uses glass, concrete, and metal. Curiously, although they seem radically opposed, they were built within a very short span of time.
In fact, no one can classify the architecture here without an ideological lens. Just take the nouns realism, classicism, and modernism, add the adjectives socialist, Stalinist, communist, and Soviet, and mix as you like. Here, architecture is politicized like nowhere else — as if buildings carried the entire political discourse. Architecture as manifesto. Just don’t say "Stalinist modernism."
President Alexander Lukashenko has been in power since 1994, and because of him, the country is labeled “the last dictatorship in Europe.” He’s accused of election fraud, persecuting the opposition, and silencing the press. He’s persona non grata in Europe — can’t even travel there. He himself doesn’t seem to care. He scoffs at Europe, the United States, and even Russia. Basically, he doesn’t want anyone’s opinion.
Lenin still stands proudly on his pedestal in front of the presidential palace, as if nothing ever happened.
The State Security Agency occupies a beautiful building on Independence Avenue. It’s better known as the KGB.
Minsk is actually very old. It’s been around since the 11th century and has suffered more than most cities. It was occupied by the Tatars in 1505, the French in 1812, the Germans in 1918, the Poles in 1920, and was almost entirely destroyed in World War II. Living squeezed between Poland, Germany, and Russia is clearly a bad idea.
World War II, by the way, goes by another name here. What matters is the “Great Patriotic War,” which refers exclusively to the conflict between the USSR and Germany, from 1941 to 1945. It’s as if the Western Front never existed. Understandably so. A visit to the city’s museum makes it clear they had no time to worry about anything else. The country lost a quarter of its population. Nearly 10,000 cities and villages were destroyed.
The Belarusian Museum of the Great Patriotic War (with that extraordinary name) is in Republic Square. Particularly striking are the photos of public hangings of those accused of resisting the Nazi occupation. The victim would be hanged and a sign placed around their neck: “This is a partisan who defied German authority.”
Museologically, it’s complicated — room after room with wooden display cases, battle dioramas, medals, and black-and-white photos with long captions, in Russian, of course. Everything is dusty, poorly lit, and fading. Not to mention the stern ladies at the entrance, the red phones, the museum map, the registry book. It’s a time capsule and would make a perfect setting for a spy movie. It’s both amusing and sad. Surely, there’s a more engaging way to glorify the past and make it resonate in the present.
The city we see today is the result of the intense postwar reconstruction, after 80% of it was destroyed. This kind of urban tabula rasa ended up offering the government an opportunity to build a new city in its own image. It showed remarkable resilience, along with a desire to impose the style most convenient to Moscow.
It’s easy to criticize the lack of corners, the endless avenues, and the residential blocks. But one must understand the city from the perspective of those who, though victorious in war, were devastated by it. Triumphal architecture had to celebrate victory — it was the only thing left. The mass-produced housing blocks are, in a way, a desperate attempt to shelter those who lost everything.
The monuments are beautiful. Belarusians seem to venerate generals and poets with equal reverence. Everyone fights with the weapons they have.
I must be the only tourist in the entire country. At least, I didn’t see another. Not one. It’s a strange sensation — like being an insect inside a palace, or an explorer making first contact with an indigenous tribe.
On state TV, the day’s news: a report on the port of Lithuania, political coverage from Moscow, Lukashenko’s speeches (in full), and the weather forecast. Tomorrow: -16 degrees and heavy snow.
The cold is brutal. The very existence and regularity of winter must shape people’s personalities and influence the course of history in ways I can’t fully grasp. I can experience it, but I’ll never truly understand what it means, for example, for spring to arrive.
The cold is directly proportional to how long you stay outdoors. When you first step outside, it seems bearable, but half an hour later your fingers go stiff. Every walk requires a strategy of warming-up stops — a kind of pit stop.
Over time, I began to distinguish different types of snow. There’s the fresh, fluffy kind, great for playing. Then the hard, slick kind that’s been stepped on — perfect for slipping. And finally, the dirty, slushy kind that cars drive over — great for getting filthy. Visually, it’s all very white. Pardon the metaphor, but it feels like a dream.
The McDonald’s is always packed. It’s clearly a reference point and meeting spot. And pretty much the only word of mutual understanding between me and the taxi drivers.
I visited the impressive Polytechnic Faculty building. It’s monumental and intimidating, like a futuristic warship stranded in the snow. Inside, it’s like any other college. I was taken to the top by two shy, funny girls, Ira and Tania, whom I met at the coffee machine. They said I was the first Brazilian they had ever met. That’s the flip side.
At the Hotel Yubileny, the room phone rings every night just as I walk in. A bored woman’s voice asks, “Sex massage?” Later, in the country-style bar, I see the girls — all in boots, smoking, sitting at the counter. The men are still at the casino, on the same floor. Between the two is a 24-hour currency exchange desk. Women, gambling, booze, and money. A classic.
The food is awful. Mushroom soup with cream, pork for breakfast. Lots of cabbage, turnip, beetroot, and pickles. The most typical dish is a fried pancake of potato, flour, and egg called draniki. On the other hand, the vodka is unforgettable.
The country is set to host the Ice Hockey World Championship and is proud of it. That, and Victoria Azarenka, the world’s number one tennis player. Little by little, sports are putting Belarus on the map.
The people look serious and tired — but maybe that’s just the cold. One must walk quickly and efficiently. The weight and amount of clothing don’t help.
The women are truly stunning: tall, blonde, green-eyed. In Moscow, people are more mixed than here. I’d even say Belarusians are more Russian than the Russians themselves.
Contact is difficult — hardly anyone speaks English, and they’re not especially enchanted by foreigners. It’s one of the most complete sensations of helplessness: to be next to someone and not be able to say even the basics, as if millennia of civilization were for nothing.
The two metro lines cross at the corner of the beautiful Independence Avenue and Lenin Avenue. It’s very deep and very cheap. Since the benches are placed longitudinally, people sit facing each other. It’s the perfect place to study faces and speculate about others’ lives. What do they do? Where are they going?
(Originally published in Revista Zum, August 2013)